Haunting

Before Him

I've done some things that
I can't speak.

Everything around John trembled, even his hands. Shell-shock? Yes, it could be called that. Mortars exploded everywhere, the ringing in his ears wouldn't stop. It drove him mad, but somehow also kept him somewhat sane. The earth was being bombarded around him, the force of it bringing John's stomach to a roiling ache.

The blood was pooling now--everywhere John looked. Patients, wounded, dead, even his own blood. John was supposed to be stitching people up, and he was, but his hands shook terribly, and he felt as if even he may lose consciousness. It took everything John had to keep it together.

There was screaming, pleas for help, moaning of the wounded, and dirt and grime covered everything. Their encampment was going to be raided soon, and John needed to patch these boys up before then. They had to be able to get out and to safety, while everyone that could stayed to fight. That included him. They had plenty of medics at the next camp over, but John would have to stay and tend the wounded that came with the oncoming rain of brass and bodies.

John was shaken back to reality by a pair of soft, calloused hands that helped him up gently. His weary eyes looked up, full of tears. It was Mrs. Hudson. She looked sad and worn, and her expression held so much worry...

John leaned against her a bit as she helped him to the loo. She cleaned him up with a damp and warm cloth, then brought him to the bed. She didn't speak much, just gave quiet commands, wanting to help John back to himself. John's gaze was distant, but every once in a while his eyes wandered to Mrs. Hudson's hands. They tended him like a mother would, and he vaguely knew that she felt a bit of what he did. She loved Sherlock too, just not the same way.

Soon, she was gone, leaving John to stare blankly at the ceiling, holding Sherlock's pillow to his chest. He'd stopped crying, but he still trembled slightly. He still heard the cries and groans of the wounded, he still smelled the blood and the field disinfectant that the fabric tents smelled heavily of. He could feel the slippery, crimson blood that soaked his hands. He felt like his hands would never be clean. Never.

He pushed aside Sherlock's pillow, holding his trembling hands to his abdomen, not wanting to stain everything. He could see it, but he knew it wasn't real now. He was in Sherlock's bed. He was in his home, not on the battle field.

The next thing John was aware of was that sunlight was spilling through the window, seeping into his skin, pooling in the sheets and duvet, and casting golden warmth into the room. He laid there for a long while, feeling his skin warm and his mind clear. Everything that came with that attacked him, reminding him that Sherlock was gone. Sherlock was dead and he wasn't coming back.

Yet, there still remained the ghost of that svelte and dark man. His broad shoulders, his mess of curls, those perfect hands, and even his sharp and beautiful collarbones.

The hazed but welcome figure laid next to him, silently assuring John that everything would be fine. The world would spin on, and they would always love each other. He whispered sweet comforts to John, reminding him that he was Sherlock Holmes--that he would never truly die.

Finally, John began to believe him. He began to believe that Sherlock was always beside him. He didn't need to call his therapist. He had Sherlock. He had everything he needed. Sherlock would always be right beside him, and he'd never leave again.